69—Friends in high places.
The temple of Lathander in Suzail embodies and exaggerates both the best and worst of Lathander’s faith. It is a place of healing, and light—a temple to the needs and hopes of the common folk. Within its embrace, the faithful renew their good hearts, or seek warm refuge from times of trouble. When viewed within Lathander’s light, each day is a new beginning, and all great things that are to become must first find expression as a dream. But as with all dreams, some things might have been better left undone and forgotten.
The faith of Lathander is often criticized for overblown ostentation, and this temple, as befits the home of the church, is grand beyond all necessity. The overall effect is that the sheer reach of the place minimizes its impact. A lone voice can be raised in beautiful song, but a thousand voices striving to outdo one another become merely a din, to be disregarded and cast from the ear. The temple is gilded with precious metals, and festooned from every corner with bright-colored decorative artwork, each piece striving to praise Lathander with a louder voice than the devotional next to it.
Taran squints at the temple, rubbing his eyes and frowning. “Cormyr needs a war chest? They should just sell this temple for parts.”
Thelbar seems amused by the cacophony of wealth, and replies, “who would buy it? The Sembians?” He boldly strides toward the vestibule opening. He is met there by a pleasant guardsman, who politely inquires how Lathander’s chosen might be of service.
Thelbar states simply that he is here to meet with Elgin Trezler, and presents the Voice of the Dawn’s most recent correspondence as proof.
“Yeah, we’re pen pals of his, from the North,” Taran says.
The guard covers his surprise well, and runs off to carry the message. Forty-five minutes later he returns, and explains that Elgin Trezler is in a meeting.
“Tell him take his time,” Taran says. “We’re patient.” The gate-guard ushers the duo into a massive chamber, hung floor to ceiling with paintings and tapestries, and bids them wait while he fetches refreshments. Several minutes pass before the guardsman returns, short of breath, and apologizing for the long walk to the temple’s kitchens. Taran stares dejectedly into his empty cup as another hour passes while they wait for Elgin Trezler to arrive and answer for his action against the Champions of the Risen Goddess.
“I liked the Thayvians better,” Taran says. “They’re evil expansionist scum, but at least the chairs were comfortable.”
-----
If Taran is hoping for a belligerent and aggressive enemy, he hides his surprise well. Elgin Trezler is seen to be a smallish man, dark of complexion, with large, full eyes bespeaking a lifetime of struggle and compassion in the face of wretched misery. Despite himself, Taran likes the man right away, and clasps his hand in a warm embrace, noting with pleasure the thick calluses on the palms of the priest.
“Gentlemen, you do me a great honor coming here,” Elgin begins, “and it is my devout hope that we may come to terms this day. Too much trouble has gone between us, far too much, and for nothing.”
“You have considered our offer?” Thelbar asks.
“I have, and while I must say it is fair, I regret to inform you that I cannot hope to make monetary reparations at this time. Cormyr is at war, and my personal finances have been given to the cause. The wealth of the church is not mine to give, despite my lofty title. I am a provincial priest in many ways, and my true role is on the front lines in the struggle against despair. Lathander favors me well, but I have little say within the ranks of His bureaucrats, I’m afraid.”
“Aw, hell, Elgin,” Taran says, blushing at the priests’ forthright humility. “We padded those numbers anyway. We don’t need your money, we’re stinking rich. We were just pickin’ a fight is all.”
“I hope that I may mend the harm with a sincere apology, good sirs,” Elgin says. “I was wrong about you, and I was very wrong about your goddess. You have been misrepresented in high councils, and I am partly to blame.” Elgin removes a small, dented flask from his breast-pocket, and offers the brothers a drink.
“Your pasoun troubles many faiths. In essence, it holds that the gods enslave the souls of their faithful.”
Thelbar nods. “It is true that all meaningful choice for an individual dies with their body, yes. Ishlok—Palatin Eremath offers souls the right to choose for an eternity. Those who grow to enlightenment are ultimately freed from all bondage, temporal and spiritual.”
“You call the gods thieves and vampires,” Elgin says.
“Are they not?” Thelbar counters.
“You speak of the death of the gods,” Elgin says. “This is incendiary talk.”
“The pasoun could be termed a death, but it is really a completion of life. The mulitverse is a womb, a shell that is to be revered but left aside when no longer necessary. The gods have established an entropic pregnancy where the womb feeds upon itself. Palatin Eremath teaches us that this condition is temporary.”
Elgin Trezler smiles, and continues. “We were all wrong about you, and I understand that now. I have divined the truth about your relationship with that fiend, and I am stunned. I have dealt with many fiends in Myth Drannor, and I have yet to see any of them reclaimed. I embrace you and your faith, in the name of Lathander.”
“We are truly pleased to hear this, Elgin,” Thelbar says, “and for our own part we have come to help rather than oppose you.”
“Yeah, we like you now,” Taran says. “We’re here to stop the war for ya.”
“You are . . . what?” Elgin stammers.
“Easy,” Taran says. “We’ve got it figured. You know about the Northern dwarves marching on you?”
“I do.”
“Do you know why?”
Elgin sighs. “I do. The dwarven home to the North. The Eastern dwarves allied with Sembia seek the same goal.”
“Then we get there first. We deal with whatever has those damn hairy runts’ beards in a twist, send the Northern dwarves home, and kill Eastern dwarves until they change their mind. Sembia will have to fold up their tents and go back to rubbing their own copper.”
“I am not sure I understand,” Elgin says diplomatically.
“My brother favors a simple approach,” Thelbar says. “We believe that there is something in that Delve that both dwarven armies intend to fight over. We would remove this thing, and restore peace among them. Without her dwarven allies, Sembia could be forced to accept a diplomatic solution.”
Elgin frowns, then nods. “You are confident. This Great Delve is more properly called Kor’En Eamor—the title means ‘First Home’, or literally ‘Seat of all Dwarvenkind’. The Steel Regent has declared that it is the property of Cormyr. She intends to use the wealth of the forgotten place to fund her war effort. She believes that a vast trove of magical arms and armament can be found there.”
“Go on,” Thelbar says. “What keeps the Regent from her plunder?”
“The place is . . . cursed. By Moradin’s hand, we believe, although we do not fully understand. I have communed some truth of it; there is a divine entity that resides within the Delve. It is malign and hostile.”
“Great,” Taran says with no trace of irony.
“You should know that the dwarven armies do not seek the same thing regarding Kor’En Eamor. The Easterners seek to colonize it, while the Northerners seek to prevent such a happening. These Northerners are led by a great priest of Moradin, and have vowed to destroy Cormyr if she stands in their way. The Steel Regent has refused them passage, and this Spring we face war on two fronts.”
“Okay,” Taran says. “There’s diplomacy for you. If you want to get anything done in this world, you usually have to subvert the damn rulers.”
Elgin continues. “The past Autumn went poorly for us—a combined force of Eastron dwarves and Sembian mercenaries made their way through Thunder Gap, despite our Cormyrian generals’ assurance that the feat was impossible for such a large army. Their commander, more giant than dwarf if tales be true, stole a march on us and we were caught in a pincer. Sembia annexed and subsumed the Southern Dales, even having the temerity to move their national capitol to the front! Thankfully, Wheloon held and we beat them back. Archendale is still free and fighting, but they cannot be re-supplied.
“For the Spring offensive we’ve massed ourselves along the Wyvernwater and sent adventurers to reinforce the resistance fighters in the Hullack Forest, but I don’t expect the Northern front to hold against the Sembians, nonetheless both enemy armies. If these Northern dwarves wish to march on us in truth, they would get as far South as Arabel before we could show them any fight.”
Taran nods his head and makes eye contact with his brother. “With our help, you won’t have to. I don’t see them trying to occupy any of your country save for the northern mountains,”
“The Storm Horns,” Thelbar says. “They will be forced to raid South for supplies in any case, so it makes little difference whether they mean to occupy Arabel.”
Elgin continues, “Just before our enemy made Thunder Gap, the priests of Moradin within the ranks of the Eastern dwarves were killed en masse, and the dwarves have blamed Cormyr. Of course, we did no such thing. We believe that they are deceived, but do not know by whom. The gods are mostly silent on the matter.”
“And this Great Delve?” Thelbar asks.
Elgin shrugs. “Most of our information comes from a group of chartered adventurers we have sent into Kor’En Eamor.”
“Can we contact them?”
“Possibly. They have suffered appalling casualties. We believe they have abandoned the mission. Of the two survivors we are aware of, one has returned to her ancestral lands to prepare for war. The other is a drow, and quite temperamental.”
“Yeah, they all are,” Taran mutters.
“Perhaps we might succeed where these others have failed,” Thelbar says.
“I believe you can, Tar-Ilou,” Elgin replies. “I do. But there is a man you must speak with first. He is the head of our faith, and a living saint. He has broken his silence to request an audience with you. Please, be our guests for the night, and at dawn, you can meet with the Light of the Morning.
“Hey, Elgin,” Taran says. “Is it true you cut your teeth in Myth Drannor?”
“It is,” Elgin says with a quizzical smile. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m terrified of Myth Drannor—and there isn’t much in this world that scares me anymore. I mean like squealing little-girl scared, Elgin. Myth Darnnor . . .” Taran shudders. “You know what, I think you’re coming with us. We’ll go to this Delve, and sort the mess out. That dungeon can be whipped. You just sent the wrong guys last time.”
